Duplicity - A True Story of Crime and Deceit Read online

  DUPLICITY /

  DUPLICITY

  A TRUE STORY OF CRIME AND DECEIT

  By

  PAUL T. GOLDMAN

  Published by Paul T. Goldman at Smashwords

  Copyright 2008 Paul T. Goldman

  DEDICATION

  To my son Johnny, without whom I may not have had the strength to take a stand, to finally say “enough,” and to fight for his future.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The events recounted in Duplicity reflect the last four years of my life and reveal, with shocking detail, the criminal activities carried out by a nefarious group of people who, consequently, stand to lose everything, including their freedom. In the interest of protecting the innocent, the names of people and certain places have been changed.

  Aside from that, however, this story is as accurate as it is unbelievable.

  PROLOGUE

  May 27, 2010

  “Dinner's ready, Johnny,” I yelled to my son over the sound of his favorite show, Sponge Bob. I skewered the hot dog off the grill, and walked into the kitchen. It was a perfect Florida evening for a barbeque, the temperature in the low 80's, with a gentle breeze.

  Before I could return to the grill to tackle the burgers, my cell phone rang. I glanced down to see that the call was from Bob Thompson.

  “Hello, Bob,” I answered, curious to hear what news Audrey’s second husband and second victim had for me. I was her third.

  “Paul! Sorry to bother you,” he shouted into the phone.

  “No bother, I just… ”

  “Did you hear the news?” he interrupted. Apparently, he did have news and I took a deep breath in anticipation. Given everything we’d both been through with Audrey, I always had to prepare myself for the unimaginable.

  “No. What’s going on?”

  “Audrey was arrested this afternoon, about an hour ago.”

  “You’re kidding! By whom? The cops? The feds? The state?” It could have been any of them since they were all investigating her. My mind began to race.

  “By the state, for her assaulting you at the Shop N’ Go.”

  “Well, it’s about time. That was over two months ago. Thanks for letting me know. I'll talk to you later, Bob.”

  I hung up the phone and let the news sink in. Was this only the first of many arrests to come? Would Audrey finally be brought to justice for the many lives she had destroyed? Would her true self finally be revealed in all its depravity?

  I thought back to my first encounter with Audrey at the West Palm Beach café and how beautiful she looked. From the beginning, I was so taken by her.

  When we married, I thought I had it all. A beautiful wife for me, and siblings for Johnny. Now, it was all gone. Where's my family? I wondered. I'm alone again, because of Audrey. I tried so hard to build a family, but it was snatched away from me by the evil machinations of a woman without any sense of morals or remorse, a woman who, if she had her way, would see Johnny and me lying in the gutter right now, homeless and penniless. And laugh about it.

  I silently scolded myself for allowing her to have such an effect on me still. Later that evening, I pulled up the police website and found myself staring back at the woman who had planned from the day we met to destroy me. The image of her mug shot revealed a haggard expression that was beginning to show signs of the life she had chosen.

  I still couldn't believe what I had gone through. How had I let it all happen? How had I managed to get so far from the life I imagined for myself? And how on earth did I survive Audrey Munson?

  Or had I?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Forty

  August 6, 1999

  Spending hours surrounded by cold, gray walls in a four by six cell gives a man a lot of time to think, think about what opportunities he may have let get away and how life may be passing him by. As I stared at the grayness encompassing me, I felt trapped and alone despite being surrounded by others whose outlook seemed as dim and hopeless as my own. How did I get here? What did I have to look forward to? If only I had a window, I might have found some comfort in the day’s light. But, alas, I was left to stare at my mind numbing computer monitor and the blank walls of my cubicle. Was this my life’s sentence?

  To make matters worse: August 6, 1999 was my fortieth birthday, and I was still single.

  I was an East Coast transplant who found himself in eternally sun-lit Orange County, California, where most of the residents were tan and, thanks to the latest in fake tanning technology, the rest were orange. I filled my days processing insurance policies while watching other people find love, start families, and realize their life’s ambitions. I seemed to be watching life go by instead of taking part in it.

  “Hey, happy birthday, Paul! The big 4-0!” The exclamation was provided by my co-worker, Rob, who had sent his wishes through a gaggle of black balloons that managed to herald my entry into “seasoned” adulthood, while at the same time mocking it. The pile of cards on my desk sent by other co-workers determined to commemorate my birthday (or commiserate over my age) was also a testament to the sarcastic celebration of life’s halfway mark. Images of balding, hunched over old men, weighed down by life and life sized bifocals seemed to be the favored motif among Hallmark patrons. Thankfully, I still had most of my hair.

  “Right, thanks Rob. And thanks for the card.” I motioned to one of the countless black ones on my desk, all of which did nothing to improve upon my gray surroundings.

  Excepting the rumors of a possible cake come break time, this was certainly a miserable milestone.

  “Got any plans tonight to celebrate this great occasion?” Rob asked as he genuinely seemed interested in what I intended to do.

  “No. Just a quiet evening.”

  “Why don’t you come over to the house later? You know how Cheryl and the kids always love to see you,” he asked hopefully. Was that pity I detected?

  “Thanks, Rob. Really. But I’ve got some reading to catch up on at home.” At least I was sure I could find something to read other than the junk mail and take out menus. Was it really only ten a.m.?

  The day passed with little fanfare to distinguish it from any other day and, as I made my daily drive home, I considered how the “big day” had really proven to be pretty pedestrian. The wishes were thoughtful, the cake was a nice touch, and even the adult diaper left anonymously on my chair made for some good laughs. Aside from that, I was confronted rather uncomfortably by the truth of the matter: today was just another day. Compounding this fact, the inevitable traffic that made my 7.3 mile trek home take forty minutes provided more unwelcome time to reflect.

  Though I had lived in Orange County for sixteen years, I had yet to find a decent job that provided enjoyment, or financial success, or both. Most people in my position who had gotten their M.B.A. degree were pulling in a steady income of two or three times what I was making. Adding insult to injury, I had witnessed each of my brothers marry, divorce, and then find true happiness in a second marriage, all while making an enviable living in Rhode Island, working at our father’s insurance agency. Consequently, as each new birthday was ushered in, I celebrated another year of misgivings and self-doubt.

  I was forty years old, driving a ten year old car, living three thousand miles away from my family, and all I had to show for it was winter weather bragging rights.

  Something needed to change. It had to.

  As I turned the key and opened my front door, the familiar greeting of my most trusted companion was always a warm welcome home. Basel, my ten pound, white poodle, jumped and wagged his tail and did everything he could to show how much I’d been missed, and I responded in kind. Despite my gloom,
seeing Basel so excited provided a necessary lift. If I had a tail I would have wagged it too.

  “Hi Baz, did you have a good day?” If his enthusiastic welcome was any indication, his was certainly better than mine. I slumped down in my chair to see what the mail had brought: a card from one of my brothers, two bills, a coupon for a discounted oil change, and a slew of catalogs peddling a wide array of unnecessary commerce. And then there was something more than a little interesting.

  It seemed as though the beautiful woman was staring right at me. Her eyes were soft, the curve of her face softer, and her smile radiated warmth and even familiarity.

  Her name was “Tatiana” and she provided the cover to a small booklet bearing the title, “Russian Brides.” Realizing the nature of the mailing, I let out a loud laugh accompanied by some exaggerated eye rolling as I tried to imagine how lonely a guy really needed to be to resort to buying a wife. Though my reaction was solely to show Basel how absurd I found the whole idea, the unnecessarily forced laughter also prevented me from facing a more disturbing reality: how had my name made its way onto the mailing list for “Russian Brides?”

  I decided to extend my entertainment and began perusing the pages of the booklet. Though I didn't want to admit any real interest in the service, I couldn't help but acknowledge the pages and pages of beautiful women comprising the catalog. There were hundreds of “Tatianas,” all beautiful and all intriguing. Did people actually do this? I mean, it’s not like you’re actually buying someone as much as you’re taking advantage of an international matchmaker. Maybe I should find out more, I thought. What harm could that do, I thought. It was just a call.

  The voice on the other end revealed a strong Russian accent that made me imagine I was discussing the potential for future romance with Chekov from “Star Trek.” Resisting every urge to answer in my best William Shatner impression, I managed to inquire, “Hello. Yes, uh, could you tell me a little bit about what you do?” My curiosity was suddenly overshadowed by my own sense of embarrassment.

  Did people really do this? Was I really doing this?

  “Of course. My name is Greg Martoff and I am the owner of Russian Brides. My wife and I immigrated to America five years ago and we made our home in Virginia. Now we help Americans, such as yourself, find beautiful Russian women to marry. May I ask your name, and how old you are?” My first instinct was to hang up, my second instinct was to make up a fake name, and my final and resulting action was to answer the man’s question.

  “Oh, I apologize. My name is Paul Goldman and I’m thirty-ni-- , er, I mean forty years old.” Saying that would certainly take some getting used to.

  “I see. It's nice to meet you, Paul. Let me begin by telling you that one of the advantages of seeking out a Russian woman is that they have no stigma attached to age like many American women. Most Russian women actually prefer older men, or, shall we say, more mature men. And since Russian women haven’t been as exposed to all the incredible comforts enjoyed by American women, you’ll find them less materialistic and obsessive about having things. Plus, almost all the women are highly educated.” He spoke as if he had memorized his well crafted delivery, yet I could not deny my interest. Greg was very convincing, so much so that I almost forgot how ridiculous the whole idea originally seemed. He continued, “Our agency is also different from any other. With most agencies, you go to Moscow, stay in a hotel, and they put ads out in the street saying, ‘rich American men looking for Russian wives-- be at the bar of such and such hotel tonight.’ We don’t do that. We have an office in Moscow, and our manager, Natasha, screens all the women at our office. She videotapes them about their lives, and what they’re looking for.”

  I told Greg that I was happy to hear of their professional approach, though I had no point of reference by which to compare. He just made it all seem so simple, so natural, and so completely normal.

  “We run a professional operation, Paul. We screen out those who are only looking for a green card, and Natasha works closely with all the women. We send you a videotape, you choose with whom you wish to correspond, and when you’re ready, you come to Moscow. You stay in our apartment for a week or so, and meet the women at the office. If you find one you wish to bring to America on a fiancé visa, we help you with all the paperwork.”

  The idea that I would only have a week to make such a significant decision did not at all occur to me. I was taken in by Greg’s delivery and before I knew it, I was providing him with my home address so that I could receive the videotape. Greg went on to explain that, if I liked any of the women on the tape, I would fax him a letter of introduction about myself, explaining my background, my interests, and what I was generally looking for in a woman. From there, he would fax the letters to Natasha and she would give them to the women who, if interested, would then contact me.

  The phone conversation ended with an exchange of information and the surprising hope that this man and his service would provide the very change I had been contemplating only hours before. I began to flip through the catalog once again, allowing myself to digest the idea of such a pursuit. Each image showed a woman more beautiful than the last and my newly sprung hope was only slightly shaded by some reasonable doubt. Could these women really be beautiful, smart, and looking for someone like me?

  The following Thursday, I repeated my regular routine of suffering through traffic, greeting Basel, and sorting through the day’s mail when I came upon a package from Virginia. Surprised by my own giddy excitement, I didn’t even bother to sit down. I dashed in the door and jammed the videotape into the VCR.

  I stood before my television disbelieving the beauties before me. Beauties that were soft spoken, seemingly educated, and by all accounts real. Each woman’s introduction began with a number on a blue screen, that faded to reveal a sterile, white walled room with nothing but a sad little daisy sitting in the corner of the room, making the women look that much more vibrant by comparison. As each interview began, a middle aged woman’s voice, presumably Natasha’s, could be heard from off camera.

  “Please tell us a little bit about yourself?” the voice asked.

  “My name is Olga and I thirty-five years old. I work as secretary in office. I have college degree. I sensitive, sociable, honest, intelligent, understanding, romantic, without bad habits. I like home comfort.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and seeing. I stared intently at the TV.

  “What kinds of things do you like to do for fun?” the woman’s voice asked a second question.

  “I love theaters, museums and visiting different exhibitions. I go in for sports, especially swimming.”

  “What kind of man are you looking for?”

  “I would like to meet man with great personality and generous heart.”

  “Thank you for coming in today, Olga.”

  I was amazed at what I had seen and continued to stare at the screen, which had faded to blue again and was replaced by the number “2.” The video again opened to the same barren room with the same pathetic flower pot, but this time it was Svetlana who would be making her introduction. Impossibly, Svetlana was even more beautiful than Olga.

  The same woman's voice asked again, “Please tell us a little bit about yourself?”

  “My name is Svetlana, and I twenty-nine years old. I very sincere, tender and understanding. I have good sense of humor, good taste, appeasable and balanced character. I have the work that I like, have many interests. More time passes more I realize I miss main thing in life-- family I might have, if I meet special person who I will love with all my heart and who will love me.”

  “Very nice. What do you like to do for fun?”

  “I not sportsman but I like spend time with bike and swim. I like needle-work and reading, planting of flowers. And of course I like any trip.”

  “What kind of man are you looking for?”

  “I look for well-educated man forty to fifty years who values family and love children.”

  “Thank yo
u, Svetlana, for coming in today,” the disembodied voice on the other end of the lens remarked.

  Though her beauty was undeniable, Svetlana’s words really struck a chord with me. I felt an immediate connection to someone with whom I had never shared a single word. The picture faded, but Svetlana's image remained in my mind. My God, I thought, she's saying exactly what I'd been feeling. Does she really mean that? Could she mean that for me? After watching countless other interviews, I realized that I was just dreamily following along, and so I grabbed a pen and paper and started making copious notes as to which women I was interested in. And then more notes. And more notes. My pile of notes grew with my continued excitement as each woman was worth writing about. Interview after interview revealed breathtaking, eastern beauties whose outlook seemed simple and honest. There was also a freshness about them that absolutely bowled me over.

  After an hour, I had seen enough and I was done trying to make excuses for why I shouldn't take advantage of this opportunity. I deserved to find someone as much as anyone else and I would not apologize for it, no matter how unconventional it might seem to others. I began to write my introductory letter.

  Over the course of the next five months, I corresponded with three women: Svetlana, Irina, and Katya. Our communications began through letter writing, and then progressed to extended phone conversations despite the cost and my meager salary. I enjoyed getting to know all of the women, but I felt a special connection with Svetlana, the same Svetlana who first caught my attention on the video tape and the same Svetlana who now gave me something to look forward to at the end of each day. The more I talked with her, the more Irina and Katya faded into the background. Finally, the idea of actually meeting her overpowered me. I decided that, no matter what, I was going to Moscow that December.